


with eyes downcast

by Ireliss



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21558478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: The listless turn of days.(Charles grows up. He is missing something, but he doesn't know what.)
Relationships: Kurt Marko/Charles Xavier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28
Collections: Secret Mutant Madness 2019





	with eyes downcast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gerec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Gerec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec) in the [secret_mutant_madness_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/secret_mutant_madness_2019) collection. 



> > Erik/Shaw OR Kurt/Charles - Lolita au! (Bonus if you make Erik or Charles the instigator for reasons - lack of self esteem, neglected and seeking attention from the wrong place etc). No torture or physical violence please.
>> 
>> (I would be just as happy getting straight up porn as I would getting a character study :D)
> 
> Some quick notes:  
>  \- I've never actually read Lolita before so this is inspired by it rather than being a straight AU  
>  \- Please mind the warnings and the prompt! Although Charles is the instigator, Marko had been giving him inappropriate attention from a very young age  
>  \- I'm thinking about writing more in this 'verse, do let me know if there's anything you'd like to see!

Autumn in the mansion grounds. The morning dawns cool and grey; Charles' eyes track the shadow of a bird skimming above the treetops. The leaves have already turned red, their vibrant crimsons a shock of colour against the muted paleness of the sky.

The world is quiet here, his only company the crackle of dead and dying leaves underfoot, the furtive stirrings of insects and small animals. Charles whiles the morning away with meandering, meaningless exploration, allowing the solitude to fill his senses.

Eventually, his feet turn back to the mansion of their own accord. His stepfather waits for him there, frowning in quiet chastisement at the sorry dirt-streaked state of Charles' skin and clothing.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Kurt says. His thumb drags across Charles' cheekbone, rubbing away a speck of dirt. Charles suppresses a shiver; he knows the power in Kurt's hands and the violence he is capable of.

But that violence is never directed at Charles. Nevertheless, his touch — lingers. Burns.

***

Charles wants for nothing in his life. Everything he asks for is his, and one day he will inherit the entire mansion with all its quiet and secret hiding places. Until then, Mother gives him all the freedom he can ask for and then some. At school, he is the favourite of his teachers. Clever, they praise him, clever and confident but still unfailingly kind. They expect perfection from him and he exceeds their expectations every time. He has many friends, yet none.

***

The blood-red of autumn fades to rust, and the approaching winter bears falling leaves to the ground, withered and dead. Inside the mansion, the servants put up garlands of holly and fill the halls with flickering, dancing fairy lights. Charles watches the play of colours against the wall and finds himself unmoved.

Winter means social events, means Mother’s parties, means being the polished flawless son. Kurt takes him to the city to buy new suits. Mother doesn't come with them and neither does Cain, but when Charles asks, Kurt only ruffles his hair and tells him not to worry. His fingers graze against the shell of Charles' ear, and Charles lowers his eyes.

In the changing room, Charles methodically strips then dresses himself in the clothes Kurt had picked out for him, covering his bruised skin with layers of spotless white and black. He knots his own tie, and when he steps out of the changing room, Kurt smiles at him approvingly. "You look very grown up."

Charles smiles the way Mother had taught him. "Thank you, sir."

"You must be very proud of your son," the shop assistant chimes in, and they both smile again. Kurt squeezes his shoulder, leaving behind an impression of heat that Charles' mind returns to again and again for the rest of the day.

***

Charles does not remember when he first became aware of his stepfather's attentions. Perhaps it was during that beach trip when he was eleven and Kurt was still a family friend rather than his stepfather. Mother had been — somewhere, inside the holiday home, most likely, enjoying her afternoon wine. Kurt had been the one to lay him on the beach towel and spread runny white sunscreen across his back and down his legs, his big warm hands rubbing and kneading all over Charles' flesh until Charles had squirmed, his calves dragging across Kurt's legs as he complained through his youthful laughter. Afterwards, they had walked together in the surf, the sun in Charles' eyes and Kurt's eyes fixed on the slim white lines of his back.

Or perhaps it was a few months later. He had been twelve then; it was a clear spring day, not too long after Kurt and Mother's wedding. Charles remembers sunlight filtering through the garden, scattering flecks of gold against the ground. White lilacs swayed around him, and all was quiet as he rolled up his sleeves and gingerly prodded at the bruises Cain had left on his arms, gritting his teeth against the pain. Kurt had found him there, and his hands were painstakingly gentle as he stroked the soft flesh of Charles' inner arm. It seemed like an eternity before his hands travelled down to the delicate wrist-bones, fragile and bird-like in Kurt's broad palm. He had then – gently, so gently – grasped Charles' face between his hands and bent down, head bowing to kiss Charles first on the cheek, then at the smooth junction of his neck and shoulder, then against the edge of a darkening bruise. There was an unnameable quality to Kurt's movements, something urgent and half-frenzied, yet furtive; guilty.

Hundreds of moments, woven through days, weeks, months, years. By the time Charles was thirteen, he was quite sure: Kurt loves him.

***

It is the height of summer, and the air in the campsite is choked with humidity and the lazy buzzing swarming of insects. Lights out had been twenty-three minutes ago. Charles' thin nightshirt sticks to his skin as he lies on his bunk bed, listening to his cabinmates speculate over girls. Their words are like foreign, flitting bugs darting around the periphery of his senses.

"Charles, you asleep already?" one of them suddenly says, and Charles allows himself to be drawn into a conversation he feels nothing for.

He makes his excuses after a while, walking out of the cabin and into the nighttime heat where wetness beads across his brow and trickles down his neck, and moisture clings to his lungs with every breath. Not terribly concerned with being caught - he is a prefect; all his teachers trust him - Charles' feet carry him in an aimless circuit around the camp. He breathes deep, fingers drumming against his thighs. The solitude is an old friend. It's better like this, better to be alone, it is where he feels most at peace, really.

His third circuit carries him farther than before, down to the edge of the lake where the tall grass scratches at his thighs and hands, and the bulrushes cast long, sharp shadows across his face. The humidity bears down on him. Over the quiet ripple of the lake Charles hears something else, warm and wet and organic. He is not surprised when he follows the noise and finds two of his classmates tangled into each other, sweat glistening on their bare skin. A gnat alights on the curve of one shoulder, only to be shaken off in the next moment as one of them shivers and groans, head tipped back to expose his neck.

Charles clears his throat. The lovers spring apart with identical looks of alarm shading into fear, chests heaving. _Don't tell,_ their eyes beg.

They look so young.

"The two of you shouldn't be out so late," Charles tells them, flawless in his composure as he slips the role of school prefect around him like a mantle. His eyes track up and down their nude forms. He feels nothing. "Do put your clothes on and return to your beds, we'll all pretend this never happened."

***

At the turn of the seasons, Mother retreats deeper into her grief, and Cain is sent away to boarding school in disgrace. Kurt invites Charles into the study that had once belonged to his father. The room overlooks the grounds and is graced with high arching windows, allowing natural light to flood in; it is always bright and clear inside. The sunlight reflects off the aimless drift of dust-motes as Charles takes a seat and Kurt pours them wine. Kurt tells him he's growing up into a fine young man. Later that night, Charles slips a hand under his blankets and touches himself to nameless, formless impressions of broad rough palms and the wet glide of tongue and lips against his skin.

Kurt invites him to the study again the next day, and the next. They sit together at Father's handsome rosewood desk, Kurt's fingers brushing against his as he passes him choice selections from the liquor cabinet. The light of the setting sun refracts through the rich ruby gleam of wine, the honey amber of scotch. Kurt schools him in business and finance, his low voice seeming to rumble through Charles' very being as he grips Charles' shoulder, hand sliding down the span of Charles' back, lavish with his praise. Their eyes meet, and heat curls deliciously deep in Charles' stomach.

Unbidden, a thought steals into his mind: _I could have him, if I wanted._

***

The stark white days follow one another in an unchanging pattern of monotony, cold, listless. With no classes to bury himself in, Charles roams the grounds, brittle twigs snagging through his hair as he stains his fingers with the red of crushed winter berries. He does not know what he is searching for, only that there is so much - or so little - inside him that the thought of staying still is unbearable.

Kurt waits for him sometimes, lips pressed together in a thin line. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately."

"I'm sorry." Charles is a master of contrite expressions; usually Kurt is satisfied when Charles bites his lower lip just so. Today, however, Kurt takes a step forward. A broad hand rests on Charles' shoulder. Its warmth soaks through Charles' clothes and Charles stands carefully still, nerves and anticipation humming through his body, heady as a swallow of summer wine.

"Charles." Kurt's fingers squeeze him lightly. "You're asking to catch a cold. Come inside."

Somehow they end up in the study again. Kurt lets him try a snifter of brandy, and the first sip is enough to send Charles' head spinning even as it warms him to his toes. He takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes as Kurt rubs a slow circle against his back.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Kurt asks.

Charles cups the glass more firmly in his hand. How does he describe something he has no name for, something he barely understands? It is as if he spends each day living with a yearning restlessness flickering under his skin, or perhaps it is a void, a gaping emptiness to be filled — he does not know.

But it is not in his nature to admit ignorance, so he glances at Kurt from beneath his eyelashes, the way he knows Kurt enjoys. "I just needed some time to myself. I'm sorry to have worried you." For good measure, Charles licks his lower lip, and is rewarded with the dig of Kurt's nails against his back. "You've been so busy lately, it feels like I've hardly seen you at all."

"You know I can't bring you to my business meetings."

"Because I'm a child?" Charles hadn't meant for it to slip out, but the damage is done. He takes another sip of the brandy, rolling it around in his mouth; it burns like fire. He sets down the glass.

Kurt had gone rigid. Now he moves again, pacing to stand in front of Charles. He crouches so they are at eye level. "You know I don't think of you as a child."

"But the rest of the world doesn't agree," Charles finishes for him. He's not talking about the business meetings. Charles' eyes sweep down Kurt's face, taking in the strong jawline and the dark moustache, the thin lips and the focused, intent gaze. It's as if he's seeing Kurt for the first time. Again, he licks his lips. Kurt goes stiff, then straightens, making as if to move away.

"Charles..."

"I want this." He stretches out one leg, rubbing it against Kurt’s. "And I know you do too."

"It's wrong," Kurt says, a token protest. Charles bites back an impatient sigh. If his stepfather truly believed that, he would have put an end to things years ago. He would never have married Mother in the first place.

"I'm old enough to know my mind," is what Charles says instead. "Do let's not pretend around each other. I've always known what you wanted, and I've never once minded."

Charles crosses his legs, then after a moment's thought, he stands. Kurt is too tall for him, but not so tall that Charles can't slide his arms around his shoulders and pull him down and closer.

Their first kiss is an uncertain thing, Charles pushing too much, too aggressively. But then Kurt holds him in return. Deft touches guide Charles into angling his head properly, then there's the wet slide of Kurt's tongue against his lips, _into_ his mouth, and Charles strangles an involuntary gasp.

When they pull apart, Kurt says, "You can never tell anyone. Never."

"Never," Charles promises.


End file.
